Midnight stories

I found her in the alley behind the bar, swaying like an innocent and excited child, eyes red from drinking too much. She said she was waiting for her drug dealer. She said it like she was going to walk the dog, like she was going to the grocery store to buy tampons and toilet paper. Like hurting herself didn’t matter.

Then she said “I’m sorry, girl”, and I’ve wondered ever since what she was apologizing for. So I’ve waited. I’ve hoped that in all of those one sided drunken conversations we’ve had, I would see a glimpse of something other than regrets and tequila but... she’s used to the sweet taste on her tongue, she doesn’t need salt and lemon anymore. And true, I’m used to see her lips tremble, but I need her to remember how to function. How to stop falling onto the ground like a wounded soldier. How to stop seeing ghosts in the mirror. How to stop counting the scars, scratching her skin, covering her bruises. And I swear sometimes, she likes it! But she’s keeping so much tears inside of her belly that she doesn’t have space for anything else. She’s starving. Hungry for food and midnight stories. Or midnight kisses. I swear she forgot what lips and hunger taste like.